Sunday
He woke with a heavy head as though he had a hangover, but it was the combination of tension, lack of sleep and the legacy of his head injury sustained in combat – leaving the right-hand side of his face scarred – which was the cause. Coffee and painkillers would cure it, plus a blast of damp sea air.
He took his coffee up on deck, zipped open the canvas awning and breathed in deeply. He was alone except for the motor cruiser moored up to his left. He’d heard its tender return last night just after nine thirty. Two men had alighted from it and climbed on board. Marvik had watched their boat until the lights had gone out, then had remained tense and prepared in case he had a nocturnal visit from them or anyone else. But all was quiet except for the rain and the wind. The rain had stopped just after three a.m. The wind had also eased to leave a relatively calm, cold morning with only a slight ripple on the grey sea.
His thoughts returned to the motorbike which had tried to run him down, just as they had throughout the night. He acknowledged the professionalism of the rider and again considered who it might be. Matthew Killbeck would have told Adam about his visit so Adam Killbeck was a possibility, despite the fact that Marvik had thought the motorbike rider had been leaner than the fisherman, and so far Adam was the only possibility, because apart from Irene Templeton and her impatient husband no one else knew he’d been asking after Bradley Pulford. And somehow he couldn’t see either Irene or her husband on a motorbike trying to run him down or engaging someone with the skills to do so. Marvik didn’t see Jensen having the skill to ride a powerful motorbike or the money to buy one either, and Matthew Killbeck was too old.
Marvik knew he hadn’t been followed to Steepleridge or back. His phone might have been hacked, though, giving away his conversation with Strathen and his location, and that was a possibility he’d have to mention to Strathen.
He again cast his mind back to the people in the Italian restaurant, as he’d done throughout the night. There had been a couple in their thirties who seemed more interested in one another than him; two women in their late fifties who had spent their entire time looking at photographs on each other’s mobile phones and gushing loudly in between shovelling lasagne into their mouths; a man in his mid-seventies and two men in their early forties, all of whom had come off boats judging by their clothes. There was no one who seemed intent on killing him, or at the least hospitalizing him. And none of them had followed him from the restaurant. In fact, no one had. But the motorbike rider could have seen him return to the bay earlier, before he’d headed back into town to the restaurant. Then all he had to do was wait for him to return.
He swallowed his coffee and called Strathen, knowing he’d be awake. He’d probably been working most of the night, delving into databases and hacking into systems to try and unearth some information on Pulford that could take them forward. He quickly brought Strathen up to speed on the attempt on his life and asked if it was possible that his phone could have been hacked and his location tracked from it even though he’d disabled the location application. The answer was as Marvik had expected.
‘It’s possible, especially if you’ve browsed the Internet.’
He had, to look up the inscription on Bradley Pulford’s grave.
‘It would need someone with considerable expertise,’ Strathen added when Marvik told him that.
‘Then that rules out Adam Killbeck.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I don’t, you’re right. For all I know he or Jensen could be a whiz at that sort of thing.’
‘I don’t suppose you got the registration number of the bike?’
‘It wasn’t top of my list as I was concentrating on staying alive,’ Marvik replied caustically.
‘Pity.’
Marvik smiled. ‘I’ll try to do better next time.’ And he was certain there would be one, but whether the attack would come in the same manner he didn’t know.
‘Perhaps you should move the boat,’ Strathen suggested.
‘And disappoint Easy Rider?’
‘There is that.’
‘Any joy with the Seacombes?’
‘Yes, or rather no, depending on the way you look at it. Alice died in 1953 and John in 1956, so unless they left some money and instructions in their wills for their adoptive son to be buried with an elaborate headstone, or it was paid for out of what Bradley Pulford left, it means someone else was fond enough of him to cough up for it.’
‘I’ll return to the church. Irene Templeton, the church warden, is bound to be there, it being Sunday. I’ll see if I can get anything more from her about that inscription without her husband hassling her.’
‘Then say a prayer for me.’
‘I thought you were beyond saving.’
‘Probably.’
‘If I can’t get anything further from Mrs Templeton I’ll ask the funeral directors on Monday for details of local stone masons. They might have kept records of who paid for Bradley’s headstone.’
He rang off and was about to descend into the cabin when his attention was caught by the sight of a woman on the shore who was studying the Killbecks’ fishing boat. She looked up and out to sea, running a hand through her long wavy hair and then glanced at her watch. Perhaps she had an assignation with Adam Killbeck. Maybe she just wanted to buy some fish or go fishing, or perhaps she was a tourist looking around, but there was something about her manner that made him curious, and if she was acquainted with the Killbecks then perhaps she could tell him more about them.
He grabbed his rucksack – which was always readily prepared with water, rations, Ordnance Survey map, compass and wet-weather leggings – locked up, climbed into the tender and headed for the shore. She looked up at the sound of his engine but made no attempt to leave. As he jumped out and pulled the small boat on to the shingle shore, she smiled a nervous greeting at him.
‘Do you know if this fishing boat belongs to the Killbecks?’ she asked a little hesitantly.
‘I believe so. Why?’ he enquired politely, thinking with a flash of disappointment that she couldn’t know them while curious as to her reasons for asking.
‘I’ve been told they take people out with them occasionally.’
‘You want to go fishing?’ he asked with some surprise.
Her fair skin flushed and her blue-grey eyes dropped for a second before coming back to rest on his face and away again. He could see she was uneasy. He was a stranger. He looked threatening because of his scars.
‘I want to survey the coast beyond St Alban’s Head,’ she explained, ‘and short of chartering a boat I thought this might be the next best thing.’
It was a lie. He saw that immediately and his interest deepened.
‘Who told you about the Killbecks?’ he asked casually.
She flushed again and said, ‘The guest-house proprietor where I’m staying.’
Another lie.
‘Doesn’t she know where they live?’
‘No, she just mentioned it. I guess I could wait until they show up.’
‘They might not, it being Sunday. They’d probably have been here by now.’
‘Yes, I suppose they would,’ she answered somewhat dejectedly.
‘I’d offer to take you on my boat but I have to see a couple of people today.’
‘No, that’s fine,’ she said hastily, confirming his thought that her reason for wanting to see the Killbecks was a lie. So what was the real reason? Only one way to find out.
‘I’m Art Marvik,’ he said, hoping she’d reciprocate with an introduction. She made to smile politely but the smile froze on her lips as she studied him with baffled interest.
‘Marvik? Not any relation to Doctor Eerika Marvik and Professor Dan Coulter?’ she asked doubtfully.
It was his turn to be surprised. How did she know of his parents? But as quickly as he framed the question the answer came – she’d mentioned surveying the coast beyond St Alban’s Head and there were a number of shipwrecks in that location, so she could either be a treasure-seeker or a marine archaeologist. He thought the latter. Did he deny it? He often did if he had the misfortune to meet someone in the same or similar profession as his parents. But admitting his parentage this time might be one way of gaining her confidence and extracting more from her about her interest in the Killbecks.
‘I’m their son,’ he said.
Her eyes widened. ‘My God. But that’s amazing. I never thought … How – why, I mean … why are you here?’ she stammered. ‘Is it anything to do with maritime archaeology?’
‘No. But I’m guessing that must be your interest or profession.’
‘The latter. I’m a marine archaeologist.’
As he’d thought. ‘Is that why you want to survey the shore from the sea, because you’re here to research a wreck?’
There was a fraction’s pause. He could see she was deciding whether or not to continue the lie. It seemed she couldn’t. She looked sheepish for a moment. ‘No. I’m sorry about that but I didn’t know who you were.’
‘And knowing that makes a difference?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled.
He thought her very trusting. How did she know that the son of Eerika Marvik and Dan Coulter wasn’t a complete psychopath? Or that he was even telling the truth.
She said, ‘I’m Sarah Redburn and I’m here because my father, Oscar, went missing from this area in 1979. I think he might have known a man called Bradley Pulford who was cremated here on Friday. I was hoping his relatives, the Killbecks, might be able to throw some light on what happened to my father.’
Marvik just about hid his surprise. But perhaps he shouldn’t have been so stunned by her sudden appearance here and now. Crowder had made no mention of anyone called Redburn but that didn’t mean he didn’t know of her or her father, Oscar. Marvik didn’t think Pulford’s death had been publicly announced and neither had there been any press coverage on his identity being revealed or the link to the Killbecks. But perhaps Crowder had informed her or she’d discovered the information via another source – one he was very keen to learn about. He didn’t usually speak about his parents but if it made her open up to him about her father’s connection with Pulford then he’d sacrifice his feelings.
‘Breakfast?’ he suggested.
She looked pleased at the invitation. ‘Only if you have time.’
He had lots of it, now.